


the kind of heartbreak time could never mend

by Augenblickgotter, fireflyslove



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angry Aziraphale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avenging Angel Aziraphale, Crowley's sunglasses as plot device, Fake Dear John letter, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Post-Canon, Pre-Established Relationship, Snake Crowley, TV Canon, Torture, emphasis on the comfort, smiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augenblickgotter/pseuds/Augenblickgotter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflyslove/pseuds/fireflyslove
Summary: “Oh, little mortal,” Aziraphale said. “You’re going to wish I was a demon by the time I’m done with you.”Or: The time Aziraphale thought Crowley left him, but Crowley was actually summoned by a cult and Aziraphale had to rescue him. With appearances by Anathema, cultists, and Hugs.Written for the Do It With Style 2020 Mini-Bang.With lovely art by Augenblickgotter!(See end notes for content warnings. Nothing graphic)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 170
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	the kind of heartbreak time could never mend

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOO this has been a JOURNEY. 
> 
> I'd like to introduce you all to the first long oneshot of my life and ALSO the first bang that hasn't tried to ACTIVELY MURDER ME. (Lookin at you, Colder Weather)
> 
> First and foremost, I'd like to thank Inki for their beautiful artwork and indulging me in my, ah, procrastination. And I'd also like to thank @coldwinterrose for letting me screech at her endlessly.
> 
> Title from Cornelia Street by Taylor Swift

It was a Thursday in March. The weather of late had been seasonably cold and dreary, the kind that kept people inside and collars pulled up against the icy rain. Spring was only a distant thought, and in a bookshop in Soho, a demon was curled up in a basket. The basket sat on a bookshelf next to the old-fashioned radiator. The bookshop’s owner was out on an errand, and the demon was dozing, not quite fully asleep, head resting on his coils.

A low droning buzz sounded, and the demon came fully awake, instantly resuming his human form as he leapt out of the basket. A circle of symbols appeared in light around him, and the demon shrieked in agony. He cried two words, a name and a Name, and then with a _pop_ he and the circle disappeared.

On the floor where he had stood was a single sheet of paper, ink smoking. There was no other evidence he had ever been here but the lingering scent of cloves-sulfur-and-green- growing-things and a pair of sunglasses neatly folded on the side table in the backroom. 

* * *

Somewhere in London, an angel’s ears burned.

* * *

The door of the bookshop opened to admit Aziraphale, closing his (completely unnecessary) umbrella. He put a slightly damp canvas bag on the counter by the door, and pushed the door shut with his foot. 

“Crowley?” he called, after a glance at the basket turned up no demonic snakes. 

There was no answer, and Aziraphale called his name again, coming around the corner of the counter, looking on the floor. Crowley had fallen out of the basket in a deep torpor once and Aziraphale had spent three frantic hours looking for him before finding Crowley wedged between the bookcase and the wall, still fast asleep. 

This time, however, there was only a piece of paper on the floor. He picked it up, and hissed at the sting it sent through his fingers, demonic Taint. The paper was a strange, thick vellum with the words literally burned into the page. 

The letter was short and terse, full of invectives that cut directly to Aziraphale’s core. He knew, deep in his being, that Crowley had written this. It was unsigned. 

He dropped the page back to the floor, and it burst into flames, leaving a smoldering ruin on the rug and in his heart. 

* * *

Aziraphale stood over the burned hole in the carpet for three hours before snapping back to himself and wandering to the back room. He poured himself a stiff drink, and collapsed into the couch. 

“Fuck,” he said, finally. He drained the drink in two gulps, and then filled the glass again. 

Getting drunk didn’t help much, especially when you were an ethereal being, but it was a nice platitude to himself. He tried to talk himself into how this could go.

Tomorrow, when he’d had a bit of time to gather his thoughts, he’d call Crowley, try to talk sense to him. Crowley did strange things when he woke up from a long nap, after all.

Maybe this was a trick, some sort of plan dreamed up by Beelzebub to interfere with the enemy. Actually, that made sense. Aziraphale would call Gabriel in the morning and badger him into getting Beelzebub to return Crowley or who knew what Aziraphale would do. Yeah, that’s what he would do. 

Aziraphale didn’t sleep so much as fall into a drunken stupor, and the night was past before he knew that time had slipped through his fingers.

Morning brought a weak stream of sunlight through the slats of the blinds he hadn’t bothered to pull the night before, and Aziraphale sobered himself up then straightened his outfit with a thought. 

He didn’t relish the thought of talking to Gabriel, but it was necessary. Calling Heaven was as simple as dialing a phone number, if he didn’t actually want to talk to God. He steeled himself, and picked up the receiver. 

“Decided to come crawling back?” Gabriel’s voice greeted him, dripping sickly sweet. 

Aziraphale gritted his teeth. “No.”

“Then what do you want?” Gabriel asked, voice losing its sickening quality, instead sounding annoyed. 

“You to tell your demon friends to keep their hands off Crowley,” Aziraphale said, letting acid seep into his voice.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gabriel said. “You know there’s a standing order to leave you alone. Take it up with Beez.” He rattled off a number, and then the line went dead.

Aziraphale stared at the phone in dumbfounded horror. Gabriel wasn’t lying. He knew that. He scribbled down the number, and pushed the paper away. Then he dialed Crowley’s number.

His familiar answering machine message sounded, and Aziraphale left a curt message. 

And then another… and another. 

It was dark by the time Aziraphale gave up, and pushed himself away from his desk. He went to the front of the shop, and pulled his overcoat on. The day had stayed clear, and the streets were dry for once. He began to walk, no particular direction in mind, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

He projected an air of _Don’t See Me_ , and the humans found themselves crossing the streets to avoid something they couldn’t put a finger on, but sent a chill frisson down their back. The great weight of his wings seemed to pull on him, and he thought _what the hell_ and snapped them into the mortal plane. Strictly speaking, they were a manifestation of something incomprehensible to humans; but when Aziraphale pictured himself, he didn’t see wheels and eyes, he saw this form, his human body, with great white swan’s wings. He tucked them in tight around his body, pulling the tips of them across each other in front of him, cocooning himself in feathers. It was like a vast blanket, the weight giving him a bit of comfort. 

When he walked into a wall, he snapped out of the introspective daze he had been in. He put his wings away, and looked around, not entirely surprised to find himself in Mayfair. It seemed his feet knew what he needed to do even if he didn’t. 

Aziraphale approached Crowley’s building, a place he had only been a handful of times, and slipped in through the front door, a passerby looking confused as the door seemingly opened and shut without any apparent reason. 

The stairs seemed the better option than the elevator, and he was up to Crowley’s floor in a few moments. The door opened at a thought, and Aziraphale stepped in. The flat smelled stale, as if Crowley hadn’t been here in weeks— which, he hadn’t. Aside from irregular jaunts to water his plants, he spent the lion’s share of his time in Aziraphale’s bookshop. There was a coating of dust on some of the furniture. The ridiculous throne was grey with the stuff. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. If Crowley truly meant to leave him, he wouldn’t be here, he probably wasn’t even on the planet. Aziraphale threw himself into the throne, chin on his hand as he considered his options. 

He could search the stars, go to Alpha Centauri, look for Crowley. He could spend the rest of time doing that. 

Or… he could wait. 

Go back to his bookshop, live his life. Whatever reason Crowley had for leaving, he would surely get over it and come back. Maybe in a week or a year or a decade. Time didn’t mean much when you were immortal. There had been times when they hadn’t spoken for the better part of a century. 

(All those times were before the end of the world that wasn’t, to be even more specific, they were before the Arrangement, but Aziraphale didn’t let himself think that.)

So he went back to his bookshop. He made himself a cup of cocoa and read a book he’d read a hundred times before, sitting at his desk, while the hours grew deep, and the night passed him by. In the morning, he flipped the sign on the door to _open_ , and sat behind the counter, looking for all the world like a lifelike statue, except for the occasional blink. 

Around noon a gaggle of tourists came in, and he couldn’t even muster the wrath to discourage them from buying. At least they only bought things he wasn’t very attached to. 

A week passed like this, he didn’t leave the shop, just made cocoa and read the same book by night, and sat at the counter by day. 

On the eighth day, the door blew open on a sudden strong gust and he hastened to shut it before the icy rain made its way in. The cold air and water shocked him out of his stupor, and he realized that he had been spending time doing essentially nothing. He needed to get out of the shop, to do something that would let him feel like more than just a leaf adrift on a stream. He pulled an old-fashioned Mackintosh coat on over himself and steeled himself, going out into the rain. 

Aziraphale opened his angelic senses and let them lead him, nowhere specific, just... _somewhere_. He found himself walking in a generally south direction toward a rather trendy district. His instincts led him into a cafe, where he ordered a coffee and sat at a corner table, scanning the room covertly for whatever had led him here. The coffee was surprisingly good, and he found himself thinking he ought to bring Crowley here, the demon would like the cafe au lait, before shoving that thought violently aside. 

It took half an hour, but finally he saw them. A pair of women, sitting at the table behind him. One of them had short pink hair and glasses too big for her face, the other a nose ring and a tightly-curled puff of hair that was nearly as big as her head. He idly wondered how she managed to keep it in such obviously well-cared-for volume in this weather. They were huddled together over a tablet, muttering to each other. 

“ — Jenny, we can’t afford it,” the one with the nose ring said. “We’re gonna have to leave the city.”

“Aisha, we can’t leave the city, what would we do for work? Maybe we could get a roommate?”

“And put them where?” Aisha said. “We barely have enough room to turn around as it is.”

“I know,” Jenny said, a strong note of despair in her voice. 

“We’ve been over the numbers a hundred times. You know the landlord’s trying to price us out. And it’s working,” Aisha said. “Six hundred quid more a month. How the hell do these guys live with themselves?”

Aziraphale glanced around himself, and formed the miracle in his mind. It took less than a second to cast, and his snap didn’t even garner him any looks. Moments later, a phone rang, and Aisha answered it. 

“Hello? What? Are you serious? How… Why? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Thank you so much, Mr. Baxter.”

“Aisha?” Jenny asked. 

“They decided not to raise the rent after all,” Aisha said, stunned. “In fact they’re _lowering_ it six hundred quid a month.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jenny said. “How are they going to afford anything? You know what, never mind. I’m not going to question a miracle when it presents itself.”

Aziraphale smiled to himself, happy for the first time in a week.

* * *

It became a regular fixture in his life in the weeks that followed. He wasn’t one for needing human contact, but the happiness that such small miracles brought him filled at least a small part of the void he was ignoring in his life. 

Aziraphale walked all over London, performing small miracles here and there to enrich the life of people who were down on their luck. It seemed his angelic senses had a tendency toward the queer parts of town, something that didn’t surprise him in the least. 

If a few dozen queer folks found themselves suddenly in posession of good luck, well, that was just providence, wasn’t it? 

Two months after the Letter, he was sitting at the bar in an establishment he had frequented decades ago, but given up after the seventies, for reasons he couldn’t quite remember. He had struck up a tenuous friendship with the bartender, doubtless helped by the fact that Aziraphale drank deeply and often, but never caused a scene. 

A man came up to the bar and sat beside him, ordered a beer. He glanced out of the corner of his eye in a way he probably thought was subtle at Aziraphale. 

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” he said.

“I’m new to the area,” Aziraphale lied evenly. 

“I could show you around,” the man said. “See the hot spots, if you’d like. I’m Callum, by the way.”

Aziraphale turned his head to look at the man properly. He was in his mid-to-late forties, still handsome, and, Aziraphale noted with a sudden pang, had a shock of red hair.

“I’m flattered,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh, shit, goddammit,” Callum said. “You’re not gay, are you?”

Aziraphale huffed a quiet laugh. “No, that’s not it. Well, gay’s not the word I’d use, but no. I just had a rather traumatic breakup a few months ago. He left with just a letter and not so much as telling me where he was going.”

“Ah,” Callum said. “Shit sucks. Here, I’ll buy you a round. And if you ever decide you want company again, the offer stands.”

“Thank you, Callum,” Aziraphale said sincerely. 

“Had a breakup not too long ago myself,” Callum said, obviously in the mood to talk. “Six years of my life and the asshole decides he’d rather chase young things in short shorts. Wish he’d go bald or something.”

And since Aziraphale was in a particular mood and well into his cups, halfway across the country a man suddenly found himself with a new case of rapidly-advancing male pattern baldness. 

* * *

Summer was nearly upon London, several sultry days promising the heat to come, and Aziraphale had all the doors and windows open to let the stale air out and fresh in. He was just opening the windows in the flat above when the bell rang. The door was propped open, but Aziraphale expected the bell to ring when someone entered, so it did. 

He quickly went downstairs to find Anathema Device standing in the middle of the bookshop. She was looking well, though Aziraphale thought she might be leaning a little too hard into the witchy aesthetic. She had _feathers_ braided into her hair for Heaven’s sake. 

“Hello,” she said brightly. “Been well, I hope?”

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Anathema said. “I thought with the end of the world not coming and all, you would have more free time.” 

“Too much, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said darkly. “How have you and your young man been?”

“Newt’s been taking classes lately, and he doesn’t break everything he touches anymore!” Anathema said. “I’ve been looking more into occult dealings that don’t involve centuries-old prophecies. I’m actually looking for a book in particular, and I was hoping you could help me?” She offered him a slip of paper, and he took it. 

The title was one he actually did have, and though it would pain him to part with it, he probably did owe this slip of a girl something for her part in helping avert the apocalypse. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and went into the stacks to retrieve it. The volume he had was in an ancient dialect, and he paused, then grabbed a translation aid as well.

“Here it is,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not in any modern language.”

Anathema took it and thumbed through the text. “Yes, this is it. Is that a grammar?” she asked. He nodded and handed it to her. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. He named a price and she didn’t even blink, just pulled out her purse and handed him the cash. He put it in the cash register, and she put the books in her carrier bag. 

“Any idea where I can get occult supplies in the city?” she asked. “I’ve had good luck at a dark market recently, but they just don’t have everything.”

He gave her an address, and she thanked him, turning to leave. Something caught his eye, and he looked closer. 

“Wait just a moment?” he said, stepping out from behind the counter and approaching her. One of the feathers in her hair was strangely familiar. It was long, almost two feet, and in the sunlight streaming in through the open windows, its black surface shone an iridescent red.

“Where did you get that feather?” he asked, voice wavering.

“At the dark market,” Anathema said, reaching up to touch it. 

“May I see it, please?” 

She reached up and unclasped it from her hair, handing it to him. His hands only shook a little as he turned it over. Angels and demons only molted once a century or so, and the base of the feather, above where thread had been wound around it for the clasp was jagged, as if it had been ripped out instead of shed. 

“Do you have any more of these?” he asked urgently.

“A few, the big ones were very dear,” Anathema said. “Why? What is it? The seller said it was a demon feather.”

“It is,” Aziraphale said. “It’s Crowley’s feather.” Of that he was certain. Now that he was looking at it, it radiated Crowley’s … ‘smell’, the way he felt to Aziraphale’s angelic senses.

“How…” Anathema started.

“Crowley left almost four months ago,” Aziraphale said. “He left a letter. I believed it, because he wouldn’t lie to me, not anymore. But this feather was ripped out. How big is your biggest?” 

“Almost four feet,” Anathema said.

“That’s a primary,” Aziraphale said. “Someone’s pulling out Crowley’s feathers and selling them, but _how_?”

“I can take you to the dark market,” Anathema said. “But you know they’ll sniff you out for an angel first thing. You won’t get any information out of them.”

“I can do something about that,” Aziraphale said.

“The next dark market is by the new moon,” Anathema said. “On the outskirts of the city. Meet me at this address in six days.” She scribbled down an address. 

“May I keep this?” he asked.

“Of course,” Anathema said.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said.

Anathema nodded and left.

Aziraphale turned the feather over in his hands, and then set it on the counter. He went upstairs, not to the flat, but to where he kept his own work books. He flipped through them until he found what he was looking for, a disguise spell.

It took the better part of the afternoon and night to cast, and he was senseless by the end. It took a few hours for him to come back to himself. But when he looked in the mirror, he cursed. It hadn’t worked. He looked like a dusty angel and nothing more. 

“An intereszzzting idea,” a voice said from behind him.

Aziraphale suddenly became aware of the stench permeating the flat above the bookshop, the droning of insects, and even the filth that coated the floor in the small kitchen. 

He didn’t, however, fail to notice the Prince of Hell sitting at his kitchen table. He scrambled back immediately, reaching for some kind of weapon, although it was probably already far too late. 

“Relaxzzz,” they said, examining their nails. “I am not here to kill you.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” he asked. 

“If I wanted you dead, you already would be,” Beelzebub said, looking up from their hand at him. 

“Then what _do_ you want?” he asked. 

“Unfortunately, to help you,” Beelzebub sounded genuinely disappointed. 

“You want to help _me?_ ” he asked. 

“No,” they said. “But it haszz become… _necesszzary_. We can’t have humanszz szzelling demonic body partszz. It’s bad for buszzinesszz, you underszztand.”

Aziraphale wished he could do _something_ to the foul being sitting in front of him, but, truth be told, he couldn’t, they were more powerful than he.

“What kind of help are you offering?” he asked shortly, not trusting a demon further than he could throw them. 

“Disguiszze,” they said. “If you’re going to make them think _you’re_ a demon, you’re going to need to do better than… that.” Here they waved their hand vaguely up and down at his clothes.

“Well I know _that_ ,” he snapped. 

“It would be easzzier if you would _Fall_ ,” they said. 

Aziraphale’s gut twisted and he found himself filling with rage. 

“Ah, no hope of that. If… whatever you did with the Traitor Crowley didn’t make you Fall, nothing I szzay will,” they said. 

“I was planning to change my coat,” he muttered.

“But it’s further than that,” they retorted, clearly more annoyed than usual. “You’re going to have to embody the demon.”

Aziraphale stopped himself just short of telling Beelzebub exactly how he had embodied a demon before. Best not to reveal that secret. 

“You glow too much,” they said. “Too clean and szzpiffy. It’s diszzgusting.”

Aziraphale concentrated for a moment, pulling his metaphysical form tight within the confines of his physical body. 

Beelzebub grunted. “Now you just szzeem human.”

Aziraphale swore under his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment and considered the demons he had met. With the glaring exception of the one he knew, well, most of them seemed rather disgusting. They always seemed to be oozing out of their corporations. He glanced at the demon sitting at his kitchen table.

Their large hat was crowned by a stuffed fly, and a buzzing cloud surrounded them. But more than that, they seemed to leak around the edges of his vision, a black roiling mass just out of sight. 

Angels didn’t manifest their aspects on Earth, but demons did. Even Crowley had a small snake tattoo on his face. 

One thing at a time, Aziraphale scolded himself. He considered his metaphysical self, the glowing whole of it, and pictured it encased in the same sort of oily blackness that Beelzebub was radiating. It took longer than he expected, but he felt something slip into place. He felt grimy, like he desperately needed to take a bath. 

A low rumble emanated from Beelzebub, and it took Aziraphale a moment to realize it was a laugh.

“You’re better at thiszz than I was exzzpecting,” they said. “Perhapszz there’s hope for you yet.” 

“I do not intend to Fall,” Aziraphale said, steel underpinning his voice. 

“It’szz not a choiczze, angel,” Beelzebub snapped, and Aziraphale was briefly contrite. Even with Crowley that would’ve cut too close to the quick. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. 

“Now szztrip,” they said. 

“What?” 

“Your clothes. Take them off.”

“No!”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes exasperatedly. “You’re not the angel I have intentionszz on corrupting szzexually, idiot. Take off the clotheszz or I’ll do it for you.”

Six thoughts crossed Aziraphale’s mind too fast for him to process (mainly, who was the angel they _did_ intend to corrupt sexually?!), but his fingers busied themselves with his buttons. He tossed the jacket, then his waistcoat over the back of the empty chair, noting absently that Beelzebub was occupying Crowley’s chair. 

He wasn’t one for human embarrassment, and he had been in front of the Court of Hell in Crowley’s underwear before, but this was somehow different. Soon, he stood in front of the Prince of Hell in just his underclothes. 

“Thoszze too,” they said. “Demonszz don’t wear underwear.”

He took them off, and then Beelzebub snapped their fingers. He was wrapped in new clothes, black pants, black shoes. A white shirt, and a black leather jacket. It was all very tight. 

Beelzebub grunted again. “You’ll do. For a human, anyway. Exzzcept. Hmm.” They ran their hand abesntly through their cloud of flies. “If theszze humanszz have experienczze with demonszz they’ll be exzzpecting an aszzpect.”

“I don’t know how to manifest an aspect,” Aziraphale admitted. 

“Of courszze you don’t,” Beelzebub said. “It’szz part of Falling. Give me your hand, I’ll do it for you.”

Aziraphale grasped their hand and he felt their power, thick and black and tar-like, roll over him. He felt his aspects flow up out of his metaphysical core to erupt onto his skin. Beelzebub waved through the first three (dove, cat, lamb) with a dismissive hand before they alighted on the fourth. 

“Oh, this will do nicely,” they said, and … _something_ happened to Aziraphale. 

When they released his hand, the back was covered in scaly skin. It wasn’t like a reptile, but rather like a 

“Tortoiszze,” they said. “Rather appropriate. I think my work here iszz done. Don’t fuck it up, asszzhole.” And then they melted through his floor. 

* * *

Aziraphale tugged at his sleeves. Anathema was driving them through the black rainy night to the unnamed location where the dark market was taking place.

“Stop it,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“Tugging at your sleeves. It makes you look nervous.”

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap.

“And relax. You look like an undercover cop.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to remember what it had been like to inhabit Crowley’s body, to play him for the Court of Hell. He visibly relaxed, spreading himself out into a slouch.

“That’s more like it,” Anathema said, glancing over at him with an approving nod. “And none too soon, either. Here we are.” She turned the car off the road, and into a dirt car park.

They got out, and Anathema did not lock the doors behind them.

The gate was obvious, a wooden structure in front of a dense stand of trees. 

The gatekeeper was a short man, who glanced suspiciously between Anathema and Aziraphale.

“What is this?” he snapped at Anathema. “I told you not to bring anyone else.”

“I think you’ll find Mr. Fell a _discerning_ customer,” Anathema said, gesturing at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale allowed his demonic disguise to ooze through the human illusion he wore, and the man visibly paled. 

“Of course, Mr. Fell, sir,” he said, suddenly nodding. “My deepest apologies.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, merely strode past him, purpose in his step. 

Anathema trailed in his wake, tossing a smile over her shoulder at the man. She was wearing a particularly witchy outfit today, a black dress, a _cloak_ , and all of Crowley’s feathers that she possessed braided into her hair or attached to her dress. She had promised Aziraphale that she would burn them all after this was over.

It was not hard to find the stand he was looking for, he could sense the aura of Crowley’s feathers from across the clearing, but it would seem suspicious to go directly to it, so he pretended to browse the wares. The offerings of the dark market were better left undescribed, but many of them turned Aziraphale’s stomach. He came to the stall he wanted soon enough, and found four great black primaries resting on a silk velvet tablecloth, vials of what looked like (and later Aziraphale would confirm to be) blood next to them.

He hadn’t pulled his demonic form back into his skin, and the stall keeper visibly jumped when Aziraphale addressed him. 

“Where did you get these?”

“A private sale, sir,” the man said.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Clearly. I’ve heard from my witch here,” he gestured to Anathema, “that you’re selling demon parts. I want to see the demon.” He worked a very small magic, “You will tell me where the demon is.”

The man gave him an address without thinking about it.

“And you will call your contact and arrange a meeting for me,” Aziraphale said. 

The man did so, and Aziraphale swept off, fingers itching to take all the pieces of Crowley with him.

* * *

Aziraphale steeled himself against the stench as he descended to the basement. It stank, of more than just the usual basement mustiness. It smelled of rotten things and sulfur and others best left unnamed. 

It was dark, but that didn’t matter to him, he saw everything.

There was some kind of altar on the other side of the room, covered in dried blood and bones and other detritus of a particularly Satanic nature. Half-scuffed chalk pentagrams littered the flagstone floor, and the walls were covered in occult symbols in dripping red paint (probably red paint…). He felt like he was going to burst out of his skin, never mind that he had a human form wrapped over a demonic disguise. True, his ‘disguise’ was something that all celestial beings were technically capable of, but it still was a strictly demonic activity to engage in. 

“It’s just over here,” the leader said, crossing the room to a wall with a locked door. “We have it subdued for now, but I wouldn’t go messing with it. It’s still got some bite. Took out one of my men yesterday, nearly killed him.”

“And you are certain it is a true demon?” Aziraphale asked.

“Of course.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well you found us, didn’t you?” the leader asked, a particularly nasty smile crossing his face. He looked pointedly at Aziraphale’s feet, and the angel looked down.

He was standing on a demon trap. If he had been a demon, it probably would have stopped him at least for a moment, just long enough to capture him and put a stronger ward around him. But… it was keyed to demons, to the Fallen. 

And Aziraphale was not Fallen.

He looked back up at the man. 

Took a step forward. 

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” he said, voice laced with falseness.

“Shit,” the man said, and one of his lackeys opened the door behind him. “Get in!” the leader shouted, and started to run backwards. 

Aziraphale glanced through the door and saw just enough. There was someone on the floor in there, covered in blood. A faint smell wafted to him through the open door, cutting through the stench of the basement. 

_Cloves._

_Sulfur ._

_Green growing things._

Aziraphale peeled back the human glamourie, let the humans see his tortoise aspect.

“Fuck!” the leader shouted. “It’s a demon! Someone get the fucking grimoire!”

And then Aziraphale smiled, a smile full of Grace. His wings snapped into the mortal plane, bright white and shining in the gloom of the basement. 

“Oh, little mortal,” he said. “You’re going to wish I was a demon by the time I’m done with you.”

He reached out a hand, and a ritual dagger flew to it. It caught fire, and the man screamed in terror. The lackeys were ash before they knew what hit them, and the three men coming at Aziraphale from behind were buffeted by wind from his wings so hard that they shot across the room and hit the wall with sickening crunches. 

The leader stepped into a circle on the floor, one ringed in symbols and salt, but it did nothing against the full force of an Angel of the Lord, and Aziraphale willed the man to be still. He froze, eyes wide with terror. 

“I would tell you what I’m going to do to you,” Aziraphale said in a low voice, “but I’m not in the mood today.”

He walked by the man, allowing a single primary to brush the human’s bare arm, singeing his skin as the heavenly fire touched him. He whimpered, the only noise he could make.

Aziraphale stepped through the shimmering veils of the demon trap, kicking the crystals and salt lines as he did so, destroying the magicks. The crumpled form in the middle, streaked and surrounded by red blood (strange, somehow he had been expecting black demonic ichor), groaned quietly as he heard the footsteps approaching.

It turned Aziraphale’s stomach to look at the person on the floor, and he almost didn’t dare to, but there, amongst the bruises and cuts of his face, was Crowley.

Aziraphale reached him, and dropped to a knee beside him. He was naked. His wings were pulled into the mortal plane, gold bands tightened around the joints just before they connected to the skin of his back. They were inscribed with sigils, which Aziraphale read at a glance, ones meant to hold the wings here. They were bloody stumps, every feather plucked from them, savagely ripped from the skin.

His hair was shorn unevenly, and his skin pricked in a hundred places on his arms. The IV bag on the floor just outside the demon trap gave silent witness to how they had withdrawn at least some of the blood. There were more cuts and scrapes, ones that had obviously been done out of sadism rather than the desire to withdraw a sellable specimen. 

Aziraphale felt tears well up in his eyes, and one dripped out, hitting Crowley on the shoulder. The demon twitched in pain, and Aziraphale quickly pulled his Grace back into himself. 

He looked up, through the ceiling and the roof and the sky and the stars, through Heaven itself. He looked up directly to God. 

“You see what they have made of him? This is who I will smite. Their free will has brought the wrath of an angel upon them.”

 **_“YES.”_ ** God responded. Aziraphale hadn’t heard from Her in six thousand years, but Her voice was as familiar as the sound of his own heartbeat. **_“YOU ARE A PROTECTOR, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE. PROTECT.”_ **

And then She was gone, and Aziraphale was alone with a nearly-dead demon and a soon-to be dead human. 

He stood, turning back to the trapped human.

“You should think before playing with things beyond your ken,” he said, and then the human… dissolved.

He fell apart atom-by-atom as Aziraphale dismantled him. He was able to feel everything, and his mind remained intact to the last. This was the ultimate form of smiting, the way that angels and demons died. 

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley and carefully pulled the demon into his arms, wincing as blood oozed into the fabric of his sleeves. Crowley cried out again in pain, but there was nothing Aziraphale could do for him here. 

He wrapped both of his wings tightly around both of them, and tucked his head in. Then the building burst into flames. 

* * *

If anyone had been looking up in London on that Thursday night, they would have seen an angel carrying a demon back to Soho. If Aziraphale had wanted them to see him, that was. 

The doors before them opened and closed at his will, and he went up to his bedroom. The room had changed from its usual red tartan to a black-and-silk motif. When Aziraphale laid Crowley down onto the bed, he noticed that the coverlet was actually still tartan, just a charcoal-on-black scheme. 

He quickly stood and stripped off the tight demonic clothing Beelzebub had put him in, and willed himself clean of the stench of that place, of Crowley’s blood, and of anything else he had gathered in the last three days. A fine black dust fell off him and to the floor. 

Redressing himself in his own clothing, he sat back down on the bed next to Crowley, and regarded the demon with a sinking feeling. His corporation was extensively damaged. They hadn’t just put a demon trap around him, Aziraphale realized, they had tattooed one into his _skin_. The lines of the sigil stood out against the pale skin in stark black. Whoever had masterminded this knew what they were doing, and Aziraphale was fairly certain it wasn’t the man he had reduced to atoms.

But that could come later. For now, he needed to do two things: keep Crowley from dying, and prevent him from ever being able to be summoned again. The latter proved the easier of the two. 

It was actually rather providential that the cult had tattooed _that_ demon trap onto Crowley’s lower back. (In later days, it would irritate Crowley beyond reason that he had a lower back tattoo. “ _I have a_ **_face_ ** _tattoo, angel! It makes me look dangerous! What is a lower back tattoo advertising?”_ ) The particular sigil they had used was incredibly close to its own inversion, something that repelled a summoning spell. It would hurt Crowley to change it, Aziraphale knew, but he couldn’t take the risk of Crowley being summoned again and dying at the hands of cultists. So Aziraphale changed the sigil. He plucked one of his own feathers and pricked his finger, producing just a smidge of blood. 

As he traced the six lines it took to invert the sigil, Crowley groaned in pain, and Aziraphale repeated a litany of apologies, but soon it was done. The lines had faded from black to a bright gold that was nearly the same color as Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale set the feather aside, regarding his work critically. Crowley’s whole form had relaxed, but whether that was due to the removal of the trap’s influence or merely the cessation of this latest pain, Aziraphale couldn’t say. 

He looked the demon over with a critical eye, looking for any other bindings. The cuffs on Crowley’s wings were easy enough to remove, and Aziraphale dropped those into a silk-lined box for later study. 

Angels could heal, it was one of the things they were made for, but it would cause Crowley pain to be healed by Aziraphale’s Grace. On the other hand, Crowley’s corporation likely wouldn’t survive the bloodloss much longer and getting a new corporation was likely out of the question. Beelzebub might be using him as a tool to stop the trafficking of demonic parts but that didn’t mean they didn’t want to see him and Crowley dead. He called his Grace into just his hands and ran them lightly over Crowley’s sides. The demon whimpered again, but didn’t move. The worst of his wounds began to knit, looking weeks old instead of days, and the color returned to his skin. Aziraphale stopped far before he wanted to, but in Crowley’s current state, he couldn’t take very much stress. 

The wings were another matter entirely. Nothing, Grace or otherwise, could bring the feathers back. They’d just have to grow back in. Luckily they didn’t have to wait until the next molt, but it would still be months before Crowley’s wings looked even half-way decent again. Aziraphale called a soothing lotion from his cabinet, one he had designed for his own wings, which tended to itch during a molt. He uncapped the bottle and gently rubbed it into Crowley’s wings, pouring as much love as he dared into it. 

By the time he was done, the sheets were slightly sticky with the ointment, but Crowley’s skin looked visibly less red, and the bleeding of what was left of his feather shafts stopped. Aziraphale put the ointment onto the nightstand, and wiped his hands on a conveniently appearing towel. There was nothing else he could do today but hope. He pulled the duvet down and then up over Crowley before climbing back into the bed next to him. Crowley twitched at the settling of the fabric on his skin, but otherwise made no move.

Aziraphale propped himself up against the headboard, and settled in for a long wait. He began to drop into a state of trance that wasn’t quite sleep when he remembered something. He reached for his phone, and it came into his hand.

To A. Device: _C safe. Fired the bad actors._

Crowley stirred as Aziraphale put the phone down, and snuffled. His eyes didn’t open, but he turned, moving toward Aziraphale. The angel slid down, allowing the demon to snuggle into his side. He pillowed Crowley’s head on his shoulder, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and closed his eyes.

* * *

He still didn’t sleep. 

* * *

Crowley slept in fits over the next two days, often crying out in languages that hadn’t been spoken in millennia. On the evening of the second day, he cracked his eyes open, just slits, and nervously looked around. 

Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and the demon jumped, skittering back and falling off the bed in the process. Aziraphale didn’t follow him, but sat back with open hands. 

Crowley’s pupils were blown wide open as he crouched against the wall, and Aziraphale felt a sharp stab of pain and a sharper one of pure anger. 

“Crowley,” he said softly, soothingly. “Crowley, love,”

“Please tell me you’re real,” Crowley said, voice hoarse.

“I am,” Aziraphale said. “How can I prove it to you?” 

“Let me see you,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale didn’t have to ask what he meant, he relaxed his hold on his corporation, just enough to let his true form seep through, Grace and light shining through cracks in reality. Crowley flinched away from the pure holy light, and Aziraphale quickly stuffed himself back into his body. 

Crowley collapsed in on himself, pulling his head down into his knees and wrapping his arms around himself. His bones stuck out in a way that a celestial being’s shouldn’t, and Aziraphale could see him shivering from across the room.

“May I come over there?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley nodded mutely, and Aziraphale pulled the blanket off the bed with him. He gently draped it around Crowley’s shoulders, and sat down on the floor next to him. The demon turned, and buried himself in Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley and clung to the demon, letting him cry himself out. 

“How did you find me?” Crowley asked a long while later, well into the wee hours of the night.

“Anathema,” Aziraphale said. “She, ah, had some of…”

“My feathers?” Crowley asked acidly. 

“Yes.”

“They summoned me,” Crowley said. “I don’t know how. I scrubbed my Name from every text it ever showed up in.”

“I killed them all,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley looked up at him at those words. Aziraphale couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“You did what?” 

“Killed them. Felt good about it too. Smote one of them out of existence,” Aziraphale said. 

“Angel,” Crowley said. “Are you…”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Aziraphale said. “Sanctioned by God.”

“Of course it was.”

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale said, deftly changing the subject.

“Like someone’s kept me tied up for… months? and plucked all my feathers and bled me nearly dry,” Crowley said, probably more bitingly than he intended. “And terrified because if they could summon me then who else has a copy?”

“That,” Aziraphale said, brightening, “is some good news for you. Did you know they tattooed a demon trap on you?” 

“I had a feeling,” Crowley said, “but the pain tends to all blend together.”

“I inverted it,” Aziraphale said. “You can never be summoned again. Not even by the Prince of Hell themself. Or me.”

“I don’t think Beelzebub wants to summon me,” Crowley said. “Unless… this was all their fault?”

“It wasn’t,” Aziraphale said. “But that’s a story for later.”

“How long has it been?” 

“Almost four months,” Aziraphale said. “I… I thought you left me.”

“Why?” 

“There was a letter. It was… not kind.” 

“Angel, I am so sorry,” Crowley said, reaching a hand up to cup Aziraphale’s face.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “You didn’t write it.”

Crowley sighed, but said nothing, just resting his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale felt his eyes flutter shut, and suddenly instead of a blanket-wrapped human form, he was holding a lapful of sleeping snake. He carefully lifted Crowley onto his shoulders, and went out into the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten in days, and though he didn’t need to, it was still a comfort he wanted. 

Crowley slept through the rest of the night, and when day came around again, Aziraphale lay him onto a basket next to the open window in a shaft of sunlight, and settled in with a book. A few hours later, Crowley slithered into his lap. Incongruously to his snake form, he was vibrating, a deep rumble that might have been a purr. Aziraphale stroked his hands down the length of Crowley’s body, slightly amused to find the sigil about halfway down his back, standing out from the scales around it in a bright gold. 

* * *

Crowley slept most of the day over the next few weeks, waking for a few hours in the evening to have a drink and talk with Aziraphale. The angel slowly coaxed the whole story out of him, and as it came out, he was more and more certain that the man he had smited had gotten off far too easily.

The story Aziraphale pieced together made his blood run cold.

A nameless, faceless cult had summoned Crowley using his Name, a closely guarded secret among demons. He had materialized in the circle Aziraphale had found him, held fast by demon traps and holy symbols alike. They had recited a spell to pull his wings onto the mortal plane, and then snapped the cuffs around them to keep Crowley from making them disappear or using them as weapons. They had started on his primaries almost immediately, commenting on how much money could be made from them. When they saw that he bled human red blood, they began to collect it as they pulled blood feathers. 

Sometime later, how much Crowley wasn’t sure, they started drawing the blood directly from his veins with an IV needle. Under normal circumstances, the needle wouldn’t even have been able to pierce his skin, but in his weakened state, it did remarkably efficient work. They had even cut his hair to sell. ( _It had grown back far more quickly than his feathers would, one of his first acts as soon as he could use his will without fainting immediately afterwards. A little vanity was just the amount of sin Crowley went in for._ )

A few days before Aziraphale found him, Crowley had heard them discussing how much they could get for his skin and bones once they finally killed him, never mind how much a bound demonic spirit would fetch from the right buyer.

“All told, I’m rather glad you found me when you did,” Crowley said. 

“So am I,” Aziraphale said. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he had had to track down Crowley’s bound spirit. 

* * *

As summer waxed, Crowley began to sleep less. He still slept a great deal of the time, and it seemed to be doing him good, but Aziraphale was more than glad for his attention. 

“Angel,” Crowley said one day in August. “Would you come look at this?”

Aziraphale turned from his ledgerbook to find Crowley standing in the middle of the lamplit bookshop, holding one of his wings. It was covered in soft black down.

“I didn’t know if they would grow back,” Crowley said. 

“You’re going to look like a hatchling for a year,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley snorted. “You’re the only one who’s going to see them.”

“And I will treasure that opportunity,” Aziraphale said primly. 

Crowley shot him a look over the tops of his sunglasses. “Smug bastard, aren’t you?”

“And proud of it. You love me in spite of it, so what does that say about you?”

Crowley barked a laugh. “Angel, it’s not in spite of it that I love you,” he said. “It’s because of it.”

And Aziraphale had never felt so happy. 

* * *

_A note, dated 9 September, addressed to A. Device and N. Pulsifer. Enclosed is a single white feather, approximately a foot in length._

Hello, I hope this finds you well. 

C has recovered remarkably quickly from his ordeal, although he still sleeps more than I would like. As you know, there are still more out there who would do harm to those of us who are… supernatural. I would appreciate any assistance you can offer in this arena. 

Yours truly,

AZ Fell.

P.S. I have enclosed an Artifact for you. You may find it more useful than those that you burned. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found anywhere an angel's feather falls @fireflyslove.
> 
> Inki's linkis (sorry for that. I can't resist a pun): [Tumblr](https://theeinkibus.tumblr.com/) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/inkibus_art/?hl=en)
> 
> Content Warnings: Non-graphic depictions of blood, the aftermath of torture. Crowley's wings are plucked, and he has cuts and scrapes on his skin. Needles are also mentioned, though not used. All of Crowley's torturers die via smiting.


End file.
